Caliban
by Willow-wode
Summary: AU-- the "end of ends" at the Sammanth Naur


CALIBAN  
  
  
  
He was conscious of nothing about him; all his awareness had spun down and tightened to a one meter circle. Without was darkness and fire and gravid evil; within was refusal and dogged determination. He would not give in. He could not give in.  
  
There was rock beneath his feet, pumiced, jagged stone that cut even his tough, broad soles as they sought purchase. There was sweat that dripped into his eyes, he blinked it aside as it stung, hot and acidic. There was a thin shriek of agony between his shoulder-blades, knotting his arms and cramping down into his buttocks and thighs. There was silence hanging within his one-meter reality, for he didn't dare to speak, saving every scrap of energy for the torturous climb. What he bore upon his back was pitifully light, yet the weight of it carried heavily upon him, fettered him past blood and bone to soul and spirit.  
  
Sam slipped, nearly fell. Frodo's breath seized and tore itself in two against his nape, his body slid sideways from where he lay like a dead thing along Sam's backbone and a whimpered mutter passed his lips--otherwise he didn't respond. The breath, the mutter, the only signs that he still lived: that and the heartbeat that hammered far too rapidly and heavily. By sheer will Sam kept upright, kept his burden centered, kept tenacious hold on the cold hands within his. It had became a twisted game of chance; he would count footsteps one at a time, just to see how many he would take before his master's heartbeat would slow beneath the influence of another hoarse, labored breath. And if it took longer that he could bear, Sam would halt, shift and shake his burden. The hollow frame would respond, tighten minutely along his own tiring, shrinking flesh, convulse against him, take in air.  
  
Then the game ended with abrupt disaster. It struck from behind, sent Sam forward against the rock. He banged his lip, felt a tooth rip loose, tasted blood, salt and sour. His hands smashed against stone and Frodo's with them; Frodo let out a strangled cry against his ear and was jerked from him, fingers clawing impotently at his cape before releasing. And the thin, hated, voice.  
  
"Cheat!" it screeched. "Cheat! Mustn't go that way, no! Master mustn't hurt Precioussss... gives it to us! *Gives it to us*!!!"  
  
Sam staggered upright, drawing his sword and untangling his cape from about him with a startling cunningness of motion, lurching forward. But there was nothing he could safely do; Gollum was straddling Frodo, pinning him, his long, prehensile fingers locked about Frodo's throat. The creature was desiccated, all starved bones and dry, waterless husk--and suddenly no match for Frodo who, upon having his person and his only remaining possession threatened so, from the depths of unspeakable terror found the strength to resist, to fight back.  
  
"No! Noooo!" It was a ragged, muffled scream. "It's mine! Mine, you slinking thing! *Get off me!!*"  
  
With rapidly-gaining strength Frodo struck out with fists and knees and feet. Gollum spun about from the force of the blows and fell backwards, rolled to his feet. Sam started forward--there was no way that Frodo could rise, react in time--yet Frodo staggered to his feet with a stunning quickness as Gollum lunged at him again. They met, tangled, struggled, Gollum clutching madly for the Ring that gleamed at Frodo's pale throat, Frodo baring his teeth and growling at his attacker as if he were some maddened, fell beast. Sam hung inactive, agonized, as with one huge grunt and heave Frodo broke the fierce grip and flung Gollum from him.  
  
The creature fell back and against Sam, nearly ripping the sword from his hands, felling him backwards against the rock with a jolt that made him grunt. For long seconds Sam lay there, wind-broken and helpless, furiously trying to regain his breath and his feet and get out from beneath the murderous creature. Yet Gollum did not attack him, or even move to attack Frodo once more. The creature made a mewling noise deep in his throat, stiffened upon his lap, convulsed. Hissed.  
  
Sam heaved himself halfway upwards; his eyes confronted the length of his sword, still quivering, impaled through the creature's spine. And the brittle weight of their enemy grew heavily upon his thighs as the lamplighter eyes turned to him, grew hazy and weak, then flat and dim as Gollum, once Smeagol, died.  
  
Sam gave a small moan, shoved the figure from atop him. The body fell like a limp rag and his sword, still imbedded in Gollum's spine, clanged harshly against the rock, dislodged itself halfway and hung there, quivering, black with blood. His hands were stained with it as well, a thin coating of darkness already beginning to grow sticky and congeal. He stared at his palms, grey eyes sprung with horror and loathing, then slowly raised his gaze up to meet Frodo's. What he saw there gagged the breath in his throat.  
  
Frodo was smiling. It was not the wide, slightly-crooked, gamin grin that Sam had come to miss so over the past months; it was small and gloating, holding a sensual satisfaction which raised the hair upon Sam's nape. Then it vanished, chasing away so quickly that Sam wondered for seconds if he'd even seen it; he wouldn't have believed it if it wasn't for the shiver still clinging along his neck. He shook his head, closed his eyes against it, rubbed his palms together as if somehow he could rub away the clammy stickiness that clung to him like a curse. He felt no satisfaction, imagined or otherwise.  
  
Yet how many times had he wished the creature dead?  
  
Now he had his wish. But accidental though it be, he felt unclean, somehow.  
  
The mountain rumbled and roared about them; the ground shook beneath their feet. Vapours of rust and yellow, grey and orange swirled heavily about them. Frodo still peered with unfathomable eyes at Gollum; he was panting open-mouthed, dripping with sweat, the tattered cloak that served as a garment whipping about him, his sooty, filthy arms and haunches bared to the gusts of the foul wind.  
  
"I must go, Sam," Frodo said quietly. "I must go, and you cannot come with me." His body tremored as he turned to Sam; bobbled but remained upright. His gaze clouded, then was startlingly pellucid, as if he was looking through Sam and beyond even the mountain which had come to negate and swallow their existence. Then he whirled and vanished in the mist.  
  
Sam stood numbly, his eyes fixed on the shattered, lifeless figure that lay at his feet.  
  
* * *  
  
He was conscious of everything about him: the rock heaving beneath his feet, the hot fetid respiration of the volcano's interior tasting and taking his own breath, the steep, narrow incline leading him out and over the fiery pit. His hair whipped and crackled in the static-filled air, stung his eyes, lashed his cheeks. His frame rattled and trembled; the uncanny strength with which he had fought Gollum was seeping from him slowly. He sucked at the acrid air and clutched to the remainder of his will, needing it--needing just the last steps, yet it wisped from his graspings, abandoned him. Frodo stumbled and fell forward, hands and knees making sharp, painful contact with rock, groaning in negation of weakness. He had to keep going. He had to. Sam could no longer help him; he had to do this alone. This was his to do. His.  
  
The runic-portaled doorway and Sam behind him; the fiery void beyond, his destination. His awareness, oddly sharp of outside matters, spiraled inward almost fearfully, tensing against the phantom, needed pain of Its voice. Yet... all was silent, within.  
  
Frodo drew in a huge breath, half anguish and half relief. Blessed, blessed silence. Somehow Its voice--tormentor and lover, goad and fetter--had stilled once again, if only temporarily.  
  
But from without the Ring gave forth protest, smoldering against his chest like a live coal. His hand instinctually started to rise, to cling to it; instead Frodo put both hands to use, louvering himself up with them and tottering back to his feet. He was perilously close to the volcano's edge. Its all-consuming fire slapped against him; he felt it penetrate his body, scorch and singe his hair, blister his face, sear his eyeballs. But it was nothing compared to the holocaust about his neck. He could suddenly smell his own flesh cooking beneath the Ring's denial and rage; he reached up, jerked it from about his neck and held it out, suspended on its chain, over the edge of the pit.  
  
It was... *afraid*.  
  
Frodo wanted to sing out with victory, with fierce, undeniable joy at this sign of weakness and forboding. It feared him! And he would do it. He would destroy it, and if it killed him, so be it, but he would be free, finally free of this demented, evil thing that had tormented his body and tainted his soul and torn his entire life and world asunder. He wanted to be the one that cast it into the fire, to feel it as it melted to slag, to hear its unholy screams as it died, died, *died*...  
  
The mountain heaved beneath him. Before him, the Ring glittered angrily, menacingly.  
  
Agony lanced through his brain, shards of metallic and crimson. He rocked backwards with a sudden, muted cry; his hand curled tightly about the Ring, cushioning it from destruction. He staggered as the pain seared behind his eyeballs, exploded in his ears, as its denial slicked the back of his throat. He could taste it, hot and viscous and salty-sweet as blood...  
  
He choked. Warmth surged forward, gagging him; he heaved and spat and a thick clotted substance hissed and steamed against sweltering rock. More warmth trickled down one nostril and over his lip. He raised his free hand, brushed it over his nose and mouth, stared uncomprehendingly at the red stain upon his fingers, at the darkening stain near his feet.  
  
It was blood.  
  
His entire body, surging with blood and rebellion. His hand, still halfway outstretched, shaking and clutching to the Ring's fire, unwilling to let go. His eyes, stinging in the flying ash, fixed on the chasm and the thing that must go into it. His mind, silently caught up in a rabid storm of terror, need and despair... Blood and fire, ash and storm...   
  
And then, It spoke. **So you think you could let me go, so easily?**  
  
Frodo closed his eyes against it, twitching, held in stasis over the fiery void.  
  
And, suddenly, he was alone.  
  
Alone. There was nothing. No sight, no sound, no smell, no taste, no touch. No heightened senses that he had come to rely upon for his very survival. No awareness of Other, or of Self--not even the perverse union of both that had sought him since he'd taken up the Ring. He drifted, rudderless in a sensory vacuum. There was nothing.  
  
Nothing save the voice. It filled his entire being with song: soft and honeyed, reasonable and insinuative. **Is this what you want?** So soft. So sweet. So fair. **Is it what you really want?**  
  
Nothingness. Emptiness  
  
**If you destroy me, I will take it down with me: all that you desire--love, life, family, home...**  
  
Wanderer. Orphan. Kinless. Bastard. Exile.  
  
**I will take it from you, leave you empty and you will have nothing. Nothing.**  
  
Lost... alone... hollowed... bereft...  
  
**Is this what you really want, my own?**  
  
Frodo fell to his knees, limp as if boneless, staring blankly into the void. He didn't feel skin strike the ground, lay open and bleed. He felt nothing. Upon its chain the Ring hung from his palm, swaying in the hot, fetid wind. Then it too went silent. Still. His eyes were wide, colourless, blinded. He could not fight, for there was nothing. Nothing to rely on, to lean on. Nothing to fight with. He was alone.  
  
Strangled on emptiness, Frodo started to reach with shaking, bloodied fingers for the only thing that could make him whole again, make him alive again, make him ifeel/i again...  
  
**I thought not.**  
  
His hand, suspended above flame, shook with conflict, tried to draw back.  
  
**I will have you, in the end. You are mine and I am yours. I will lie with you in the night, give you peace in the day. Submit...**  
  
"No." It was weaker.  
  
**Heed me, my own. You know what can be yours, if you but gift us this final thing. Such a small thing, this admittance...**  
  
"You have... nothing I want."  
  
**Are you so certain?**  
  
His surety fumbled with itself, shivered.  
  
**You want your self, your soul. I can give it to you; that and much, much more...**  
  
Every wall he had inwardly constructed over the past months against the possibility of assault; every barrier, mental and physical, that he had erected so carefully and painstakingly, whatever control he had ever fought for and managed to possess was suddenly crumbling from within. He could all but see visible proof of it: a tiny, starved animal clawing maniacally at the foundations of its own hope and strength, snarling and snapping in its bid for freedom. It was angry and abandoned. It was covetous and cunning. It was *hungry*...  
  
It was himself.  
  
"Noooo..." Frodo fell forward, throwing his arms over his eyes, but it halted nothing. The vision played before him even behind closed and buried lids, calligraphed irretrievably on his retinas. The changling creature gibbered at him from the shadows, wallowed in his despair, reached out for him, tried to take him under. In the darkened mirror of his own eyes he saw what had made Gollum... and what it would make of him. How he had felt, the thrill that had devoured him when he'd seen Gollum's life taken by his dearest one's sword.  
  
Revulsion thrust and twisted through his heart. He pulled away, groaned denial. Felt fear. Curled about rationality and reason. Silence fell within his mind and he crouched there, panting. The Ring, thwarted and angry, throbbed within his palm where it stretched towards the chasm.  
  
He must destroy it. He must. Frodo tried to pull himself up to his elbows, dragged himself forward several inches, suffocating on weakness and blood, bile and silence.  
  
Then the silence tore itself asunder and descended howling upon him. Every mote, every fiber of being, every sensation that he had ever had or dreamed, been appalled of or feared, ripped through him; a vast, timeless overload, an unorchestrated concert of chaos. All of it called to him in murmurs of darkling velvet, in shrieks of ragged bedlam. It wept. It begged. It promised. It demanded. He was lifted by it one moment, then weighed under the next. Not enough. Too much. All of it... too... much...  
  
Entwined, entrapped, entranced, encompassed, Frodo collapsed. He wanted it. He feared it. It was beautiful and perfect and he could not destroy it. It was craven and controlling and he must destroy it. Tractability and resistance, both equally practiced so far, now turned on him and did battle, no longer inseparable as the Ring wrapped itself about his mind and forced it inside out.  
  
**You have no choice, not any longer. You will submit.**  
  
Every sense he owned shrieked in exultant, exquisite pain; his body arced upward beneath the sensations and he was dragged through his own being as every nerve ending set itself raw and ablaze. Thrown from utter destitution into glutted, shuddering completion, his soul ran the gauntlet of pain and pleasure and power with an exigency he no longer had the strength or ability to isolate himself from. It knew. It knew exactly where to take him, and where to leave him...  
  
**You... will... submit...**  
  
What was left of the cape he'd wrapped about himself shredded further in the hot, gritty wind as he writhed there on his belly at the edge of Doom. Small, tortured sounds burst from his chest as Frodo was slowly, inexorably driven to drag his outstretched fist--and the Ring--back towards his breast.  
  
It sang with demented, insistent pleasure, hummed his name like a caress, stroked him, gentled him...  
  
"Please..." he sobbed.  
  
...Then turned on him, flung him backwards, sank ivory fangs into him.  
  
"SAM!"  
  
The shriek, torn from his throat, echoed and was lost into the fire. Ash scattered and fell about him where he lay, sobbing and spent. Then he went still.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam jerked upright at the scream. "Frodo?"  
  
Frodo was nowhere to be seen. Sam shook himself--how long had he stood here, snared and stilled? His body was already moving, responding to the shattering cry, stumbling up the incline and through the vaulted doorway into the very heart of the mountain. He felt numb, shrouded. What had overcome him?  
  
The Ring. He felt it with undeniable surety. It knew him for the threat he was. And now Frodo was alone with It, here in the very center of Mordor's evil...  
  
"No!" he groaned out, breaking into a run.  
  
It felt like miles, though in truth it was a simple matter of meters. The doorway loomed over, above and behind him, Sam charged up the incline then skidded to a halt with a strangled moan. Fire and ash whipped about him, ruffling the rags that fell across the limp figure tossed like a staring, broken doll against the edge of the Sammath Naur. Sam's breath ripped then truncated itself in his chest as Frodo's torso shifted and arced against the rock, as outflung limbs twitched, as lungs sucked in a ragged cough of fume and smoke. He animated himself with remarkable swiftness, curling to a crouch, and a sudden insecurity of agony claimed Sam as Frodo cupped the Ring in grimy, strangely-gentle hands. With one intemperate gesture he ripped the chain from it, tossing the links into oblivion.  
  
"Frodo, NO!"  
  
Frodo looked up, eyes glowing like white-hot coals. There was nothing of softness remaining in his features; they were set and terrifyingly focused. There was a dark smear of crimson across his lips; as he smiled it twisted his mouth into a sneer. Carefully, ever so carefully, he set the Ring upon the first finger of his left hand.  
  
Yet he did not vanish. His form wavered, grew indistinct, but did not totally shed itself from view. Sam wondered at this but did not let it stay him; he lurched forward, hands outstretched. The unearthly eyes shot towards him and fastened upon him. Sam was slammed against an invisible, encompassing wall. He couldn't move, suddenly, could barely breathe.  
  
"Stay back." It was a hissed warning. There was no recognition whatsoever on Frodo's face.  
  
"Frodo..." he managed through the choking pressure and was suddenly released, thrust backwards by unseen, importunate hands.  
  
"Stay you back, I say! You cannot stop me. You cannot have it."  
  
"I don't want the filthy thing!" Sam cried at him. "Frodo, it's me! Don't you know me?" He started forward again; again, Frodo's gaze lit with shattering fire.  
  
"I warn you..."  
  
The mountain roared about them, making them both reel. From the heart of darkness the Eye fell upon them: aware, roused, filled with inchoate terror and rage. A scream of cheated fury rose above the volcanic furnace; the sound of wings echoed in the caverns.  
  
"They're coming, Frodo!" Sam shouted against the bedlam.  
  
"Let them come."  
  
"Are you mad?" He choked even as he said it, for the answer was there, plain before him.  
  
The wind howled down through the volcano's mouth, once again nearly felling them both, ripping at Sam's cape. The elvish broach gave with a sharp 'ping', scratching him, drawing a thin red line across his throat; Sam barely felt it, hardly saw the cloak rent by fire and consumed. He was spellbound by the sight before him. Frodo staggered beneath the elemental forces violently buffeting them both and his form once again wavered, shrouded itself, threatened to wisp into nothingness. Sam inwardly writhed with agony; if Frodo vanished then he would have no chance of helping him, of taking the Ring from him if he had to.  
  
And he would have to. Frodo had fallen totally under its thrall; he was not going to be able to even cast it aside, much less into the fire which would destroy it. He had to do it for him. Somehow.  
  
Raucous screams carried from above; shadows fell over the edge of Doom. The Nazgul.  
  
Sam drew his sword, stepping cautiously toward Frodo, who no longer paid him the slightest heed. He had once more gained some measure of control and was looking up with gleaming eyes and an horrific, waiting calm as the huge carrion feeders winged, circling. The first two arrivals pinioned down, great wings stoking ash and fume against the two hobbits. Sam felt himself shaking, scared juiceless yet he held his ground, turning toward them as they landed: great, black, dragon-like beasts with eyes of flame and a stink like that of a charnel house, tattered ebon riders athwart their shoulders.  
  
Sam raised his sword. There was nothing else to do. He was trapped here with an insane stranger who wore his best friend's form as if an empty, shattered husk. He was helpless. They were beaten, doomed...  
  
The wraiths dismounted, started to glide with slow eagerness toward them.  
  
Sam started forward, sword held ready. Then a harsh sound--ripped out over unwilling, abused vocal cords--came from behind him.  
  
"No," Frodo ordered. "Stand down."  
  
Amazingly, the wraiths halted. They seemed puzzled, unsure. One began to draw its sword, but Frodo's voice--it was his voice, yet not--snapped out like whip, halting it in its tracks.  
  
"I said nay."  
  
Sam couldn't believe what he was witnessing. The wraiths wanted to press forward, they wanted to kill him, they wanted to take Frodo and the treasure he possessed...  
  
But they couldn't. Above them, an updraft filled the caverns as the remaining mounted Nazgul lifted their spiral. Holding. Sam turned in stunned bewilderment to look at Frodo, who stared back at him impassively, ragged cloak and scorched hair lifted upward into the beat of the leathern wings above. Then as Sam watched, the perfect, terrible mask began to crack. No longer was there the insane calm upon his being. Frodo suddenly staggered, fell back terrifyingly close to the edge, gasping and twitching as if whatever force had its hold on him was collapsing, as if the power channeling itself through him and outward was somehow fusing itself wrongly within. The mountain vomited forth more ash and magma, rising inexorably beneath them.  
  
Sauron, his minions stilled, was calling the mountain down upon them. Frodo reeled, nearly fell. The dark stain below his nostrils brightened, thickened, betrayed itself as fresh blood. He gagged; more blood burst from his mouth, trailing down his jawline and throat. And the knowledge of what was happening descended upon Sam with undeniable clarity.  
  
This was not of Frodo, this power. It was lifting him, filling him, using him. It was making of him a beacon to light the way for Its finding. But it was not his. He was in no way meant to bear *this*.  
  
It was killing him.  
  
The knowledge broke through, pierced him cleanly, let cold reaction and reason push past terror and immobility. He could not just stand and do nothing. He could not just watch as his dearest one's life and mind bled totally away. With sudden venom, Sam tossed aside his sword. He turned his back on the stunned Nazgul and moved toward Frodo. His arms were at his sides, his hands slightly open. Unthreatening.  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
The face that had once been so soft and gentle turned to him, a rictus of fury. Yet there was also something beneath there, something recognizable. Frodo shuddered, but he did not back away. Did not order that Sam also stand aside. Did not stop him--even though he well could have.  
  
Not even hesitating long enough to wonder at this, Sam took another step, approaching as if he had cornered a wild beast that might turn and rend him at any moment. They were running out of time. Yet he had to take what time there was. "Frodo? You know me, now. You know I'd never hurt you."  
  
Frodo peered at him. Confusion glimmered through the fissures of the mask that had settled upon his countenance.  
  
Sam reached out, touched one arm. It felt surprisingly solid, like corded steel. Frodo jerked as if on strings; again the power filling him began a retreat and he started to fade into transparency. But Sam didn't back away, didn't panic. He stood quietly, angled forward with slow gentleness. Speed would destroy everything. Haste would give warning. Any attempt to touch the Ring would ruin all.  
  
Frodo's eyes were yawning fistulas into fell darkness, white and wild against his sooty, begrimed features.  
  
There was no other choice. Sam took the quivering, contorted face between his hands and spoke softly. "It's all right. You know me." Calmly, quietly, he wiped the blood from Frodo's mouth and nose; the stream had lessened but he was not fooled by such seeming improvement. Again, he insisted, "You know me, Frodo."  
  
"Sam?" The voice was Frodo's again, hoarsened and thickened nearly past use. For moments recognition and lucidity sparked in the vast, unreachable eyes; apprehensive, fey awareness reached out with invisible, clutching fingers. "Oh, *Sam*..."  
  
It was instinctive and desperate, the reaching out. Sam nearly staggered beneath it as it burst upon his mind; in a matter of seconds he saw it all, felt it all, became and endured it all. It lashed though him: the battle, the denial, the violation and then these the final, mortal spasms of a body, mind and soul brutalized past any ability to repair or ease. It seared him to bone, sickened him, tore a gasp from his lips. He stared into Frodo's blood-filled, pleading eyes, his own brimming.  
  
Frodo's hands came up, gripped his wrists. *Help me. Stop It. Stop ME...*  
  
The Ring flashed white-hot warning.  
  
Sam bent forward, kissed the blooded lips then pulled the dark head against his chest. He answered the shattered plea by cloaking the breakage and rapine with soft touches and quiet starlight; he filled their minds with childhood memories of lying tangled and somnulent as puppies in the green grass on the roof of Bag-End, of raking piles of autumn leaves so neatly then brazenly leaping into their midst, of reading to each other by candlelight across the kitchen table, of reveling in harvest festivals where they had danced and laughed with pretty girls and drank with beloved friends and sang with kin and family into the dawn hours. Frodo folded against him, buried his face in his collar, wrapped his arms about his neck.  
  
*Do it. Do it now, while we still can...*  
  
Frodo vanished. But Sam could still feel him, trembling like a crippled bird within his grasp. Could feel pity and sorrow for what they had endured, only to come to this in the end. Could feel a stab of regret for what had been, for what now would never be. Yet above all of it, he could feel the Ring as Frodo clutched tighter and It laboured vainly against the grip, as It burned Sam's own nape and ripped into their brains in denial and passion and rage and terror...  
  
"Damn you," he said to It. "It's over. Over."  
  
Behind them, the Nazgul let out a fearful cry and rushed forward. The mountain belched forth fury.  
  
Sam whispered a name, held tightly to its owner, then stepped off into the abyss.  
  
  
* * * 


End file.
